My dad doesn’t want to fix my house anymore–time to get married!

Friday night, my garbage disposal stopped working.

But I didn’t panic. Oh no. I very calmly did what any independent, self-reliant young woman with her own home would do.

I called my daddy and cried that I broke my house.

Sadly, this is not an uncommon occurrence in my life.

Call me melodramatic if you will, but I tend to rank anything broken around the house that I can’t fix on my own as catastrophic on the level of a Godzilla attack. And consequently, if I call my dad and just say “Hey dad, my garbage disposal isn’t working. Can you come take a look at it?” he’s not coming. But if I cry and tell him that I broke my house, I’ll usually get the help that I need.

Unfortunately, this has led to a bit of a boy-who-cried-wolf (or in my case, girl-who-cried-broken-house) dilemma. So when I told my dad that my house was broken, he sighed and asked what it was this time. And when I told him what the problem was, he tried to tell me how to fix it myself.

Meaning what I heard was something akin to Charlie Brown’s teacher talking. Seriously. He told me to try pushing the button on the bottom of the garbage disposal and I heard “whomp whomp whomp whomp whomp.”

But I’m making an attempt to be less helpless, so I decoded what he was saying and eventually ventured into the murky shadowland under my kitchen sink looking for this mysterious button that he spoke of.

And, feeling like Indiana Jones about to swipe that weird gold thing in Raiders of the Lost Ark (and equally expecting a giant bolder to chase me out of my kitchen after pushing the button), I pushed it.

And nothing happened.

Crap.

“It didn’t work, daddy.”

Another sigh. And some more whomping that equated to “check the fuse box.” Which I’m actually an expert at, because thanks to those lovely “hot girl problems” that I have, I blow fuses pretty regularly when I’m drying my hair. (And because I have the sense of humor of a 12-year-old boy, blowing fuses sounds really dirty and I’m giggling as I’m writing it. I also can’t say the word “penis” with a straight face.)

But no fuses had blown. And my dad’s next instruction, to stick an appropriately-sized allen wrench in the hole on the bottom of the garbage disposal and turn was so far outside of my home-repair abilities that I was forced to return to my initial assertion that my house was broken.

And for the first time in my life, my daddy seemed reluctant to come over and fix my broken house. Which led me to the only logical conclusion that I could draw from this scenario: it’s time for me to get married. Because there are just some tasks that I’m incapable of doing (or, more realistically, completely unwilling to do) on my own. Specifically, I mean anything more complicated than a burned out lightbulb.

I’m not going to lie and claim that I’m the poster child for feminism—if you’re a loyal Sara*ndipity reader, you’d know that’s not true anyway considering that I wrote a post on hot girl problems and one a while ago about my inability to jumpstart a car or change a tire. But I think it’s only fair that guys should have to deal with certain icky jobs around the house that I don’t want to do. Like anything dealing with plumbing. Or killing bugs.

The girls reading this are probably all nodding right now, while the guys are asking why that’s supposed to be fair.

Well, I’ll tell you. There are two main reasons.

Okay, I guess there are other reasons to get married as well. Like love and children and tax breaks and all that stuff. But for me, I think the main draw right now would be having someone to take care of all the things that I can’t (won’t) do.

For example, if there is anything wrong with the toilet, I’m not fixing it. I’m just not. A couple years ago, mine was running randomly, and my dad tried to walk me through the process of replacing that rubber floaty thingy in the tank to make it stop.

Three hours, some yelling (on my part), some crying (on both of our parts), and a minor apartment flood later, my dad came over and fixed my toilet. And to this day, I have no idea why I was incapable of doing that myself when it took him less than thirty seconds to do, nor do I have any idea what that rubber floaty thingy is called.

But it’s the kind of thing that, if I had a live-in man, could have been fixed quickly, with less yelling, crying, and flooding.

So, with no rational solution to the garbage disposal situation in sight (because I wasn’t going to pay someone to fix it. I’m broke from buying tickets to see Bruce four times in the same week on this upcoming tour), I started husband hunting.

Which did not go so well.

Apparently men these days are looking for a little more romance than, “Let’s get hitched so you can fix my garbage disposal and any other random crap that I manage to break around my house.” Who knew gender roles had done such a complete 180?

Luckily, my dad proved that he does love me and doesn’t want me to marry someone solely for plumbing skills, because he came over bright and early the next morning with a set of allen wrenches, and within approximately 2.6 seconds of walking in the front door, my garbage disposal was working like a champ again.

Which made me feel like a complete moron for not being able to fix it myself. But better to be a moron with a working garbage disposal and a daddy who loves me than a moron with a broken garbage disposal, right?

I’ll keep telling myself that.

And thanks dad.

Who says nuclear disasters can’t be funny? My friend Godzilla begs to differ…

So I know I’ve been slacking on the blog front lately, but for once it has NOTHING to do with my obsession with people from New Jersey.

No, really! Bruce isn’t touring, Gaslight Anthem isn’t touring in this country, and Jersey Shore tragically finished its third season last week. I’m so depressed I don’t know what to do with myself. Seriously. It’s reached the wearing yoga pants and sneakers to places other than the gym level. I mean, Don’t worry too much yet though; I’m still wearing makeup, but if you see me in yoga pants, sneakers and no mascara, it’s time to call the suicide hotline and get me some help…

The real answer is that I’ve been editing my next book so that you’ll have reading material this summer that, unlike this blog, I’ll actually make some money off of. Because while I appreciate my family clicking the ads on my blog, I get approximately 1/18th of a penny for every click I get. Which means that in seven months of blogging, I’ve earned ALMOST enough to buy a gallon of regular gasoline. As long as I go to the super cheap station where you have to pay cash. But it’s a start.

But I digress. That’s not what I came here to talk about (blog about?) today. I came to talk about the draft.

Kidding. Please tell me that someone other than my parents got the “Alice’s Restaurant” reference. Anyone? Bueller? Bueller? (And if you didn’t get THAT one, it’s time for YOU to put on yoga pants and no mascara. Seriously. What are you doing with your life?)

In the week and a half that I’ve been ignoring my blog, a lot has happened in the world. I didn’t get the Charlie Sheen internship (which, let’s be honest, contributed to the yoga pants shame spiral. I really wanted that job. But it’s probably for the best. As I’m already COMPLETELY and utterly sick of Charlie Sheen and think he needs to go crawl back into his drug/alcohol induced crazy cave), and the situation in Libya has deteriorated to the point where my earlier blogs making gentle fun of Gaddafi are no longer funny. Which is the real reason why I personally hate Moammar Gaddafi. If you’re going to be enough of a psycho to make it NOT funny when I mock you, you also need to retire to Charlie Sheen’s crazy cave in yoga pants and no mascara.

Oh and there was that whole Japanese earthquake/tsunami/nuclear disaster situation.

Which, as I’ve been told repeatedly by the media, is not funny in ANY way. In fact, people have started pulling episodes of The Simpsons that deal with Homer Simpson-induced nuclear meltdowns from syndication because of the situation in Japan.

Yes. I’m serious. Episodes from 15 years ago in which Homer sets off a nuclear crisis by being a stupid, fat American are now “not funny” in light of the natural disasters that caused a nuclear crisis in Japan. Which has to be Gaddafi’s fault somehow. I don’t know how yet. But it is. No one else is evil enough to make people think classic Simpsons episodes aren’t funny. Damn you, Gaddafi!

But because of how serious everything in the news has been, the world seems to be ignoring the fact that two of the current biggest news stories aren’t really anything new. In fact, two of the biggest news stories of the moment seem to have come straight out of the movies.

I’ll give you a hint: they both involve reptiles.

For example, I hate to break it to you, but the cobra escape from the Bronx Zoo is NOT news. I saw that movie already when it was called Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.

Worry less about finding the snake, worry MORE about finding the 11-year-old wizard who removed the glass keeping the snake contained with his mind. Seriously. The snake is gone. Get over the snake. The WIZARD WHO FREED THE SNAKE IS STILL OUT THERE. Want to get rid of Gaddafi? A simple “Avada Kedavra” curse would do it. But we muggles can’t perform those. FIND THE WIZARD.

(All the non-Harry Potter fans out there have no idea what that last paragraph was talking about. And all the obsessive Harry Potter fans out there are super pissed off at me because they’re sitting there saying, “Harry would NEVER perform the Avada Kedavra curse, even on Moammar Gaddafi,” and they’re planning to trick me with something from Fred and George Weasley’s shop that will seem like candy but will really cause horrible discomfort. Get over it guys. You’re not wizards. You never will be. And if somehow you ARE, I’m sorry. Please don’t hurt me.)

The second story, I’m pretty sure that I can’t be the only one who made this connection, but considering that people are pulling Simpsons episodes, I may be the only one brave enough to talk about it.

Yes. I mean the radiation levels in the water in Japan.

Because I saw that movie too. And I know what comes next.

Need another hint? Let’s act it out. Stand up. Point at the sky. Move your mouth in silent gibberish while someone else dubs over you, “Look, it is Godzilla! We must flee!”

I mean, this is how Godzilla was born. Radiation in the coastal waters of Japan. And I think people need to be prepared for the fact that a giant, martial-arts practicing, building-stepping-on lizard could be about to emerge and begin stomping on what’s left of Japan.

But, as usual, I have a plan. Lure Godzilla off with a blonde, King Kong-style, and deliver him to Libya. Because Gaddafi is JUST crazy enough to think he could beat Godzilla. And it might be a close fight. But my money is on the giant radioactive lizard. A young Gaddafi might have been able to give Godzilla a run for his money. Crazy old man Gadaffi? You’ve got this Godzilla.  This is your moment.  Shine on you crazy lizard, you.

It really is a win-win situation. Plus, unlike when the US gets involved in a situation like this (cough Iraq cough), when the problem is over, Godzilla doesn’t need a real exit strategy. He can just retire into the Mediterranean, or, if he wants to keep fighting, can go back to Japan and battle Mothra and whatever other giant mutants emerge from Japan’s radioactive waters.

And now I’m going to go donate some money to the Japanese relief efforts because I’m probably going to hell for mocking them in their time of need. And if you laughed at any part of this blog, you’re probably going to be there with me. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you when Godzilla gets here. Because he’s coming. And we should flee.